Todos los capítulos de Wrecked by my enemy : Capítulo 71 - Capítulo 80

The garden pavilion at the Hawthorne estate in Bedford was always kept at a suffocatingly precise seventy-two degrees. It smelled of damp peat moss, distilled water, and the faint, chemically sweet preservative sprayed on the white orchids Catherine Hawthorne had spent the last two decades tending. It was a beautiful, glass-enclosed cage, completely isolated from the brutal wind off the Hudson and the corporate warfare currently consuming Manhattan. Elias stood in the doorway, the heavy iron handle cold against his palm. He had driven north in the dead of night, his mind spinning from the silent, agonizing theater of the Pierre gala. Under his cashmere sweater, his skin was still hyper-sensitive, his shoulders stiff from the lingering, possessive bruises Damien had left on him. Every slow movement of his chest felt like a betrayal of his name, a visceral reminder of how easily he had unraveled in the dark under the raw, dominant weight of his family’s greatest enemy. His mother did

The heavy scent of cedarwood and rain didn’t belong to Elias.When the shadow finally stepped into the pool of light cast by the computer monitor, Damien’s fingers tightened so hard against the edge of the twenty-year-old photograph that the brittle paper threatened to snap. It was Rafe. His head of security, his closest confidant, and the only man who knew exactly how deep Damien had fallen into the quicksand of his forbidden affair with Elias.Rafe looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes matching the grim set of his jaw. He didn't ask permission. He walked straight over to the mahogany desk, tossed a heavily encrypted tactical tablet onto the blotter, and leaned down, his eyes scanning the ancient photograph Damien was trying to hide beneath his palm."You look like you've seen a ghost," Rafe said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that cut through the sterile hum of the server stack."I have," Damien murmured, his voice sounding hollow, stripped of its usual corporate author

The scent inside the boutique was thick, almost suffocatingly sweet—a dense, humid mixture of crushed eucalyptus leaves, wet moss, and greenhouse earth. It was an artificial oasis designed to screen out the harsh gray exhaust of the city outside, yet to Elias Hawthorne, it felt entirely like a funeral parlor.Across the marble-topped counter stood Sophia Lang, her spine perfectly straight beneath her tailored ivory trench coat. To any casual observer glancing through the display windows of the Madison Avenue florist, they were the picture-perfect image of high-society romance: a pair of young, devastatingly attractive executives preparing to cement their union before the eyes of the financial world.Every touch was calibrated. Every glance was measured to the millimeter.Elias stepped closer, his hand sliding smoothly over the small of her back. Through the fine silk of her blouse, his fingers found the exact curve of her waist. It was a gesture of effortless, possessive warmth, and S

The storm outside had finally receded into a miserable, low-hanging fog that wrapped around the glass towers of the financial district like a shroud. Inside her private suite, Sophia Lang didn't turn on the overhead lights. She sat at the head of the polished obsidian conference table, illuminated only by the pale, milky glow of an encrypted laptop screen and the soft amber flame of a single scented candle.Her shoulder throbbed with a dull, persistent ache where the rough edge of the car door had bruised her skin during the chaos upstate, but she ignored it. She had no time for weakness. The physical violence of the previous night—the terrifying sight of weapons drawn, the cold threat of execution, and the suffocating presence of Elias Hawthorne pulling the strings—hadn't broken her. It had simply burned away the last remnants of her hesitation.Across the table sat Julian, a high-level corporate lobbyist whose quiet discretion was bought at a price that could fund a small navy. He w

The Manhattan rain had transformed into a relentless, icy drizzle, painting the pavements in slick grease and reflecting the blinding neon grid of midtown. It was six in the morning, the city waking up with its usual aggressive roar of taxi horns, screeching subway brakes, and the sharp, metallic scrape of delivery trucks against curb corners.Damien Hawthorne stood under the narrow canvas awning of a corner newsstand on 57th Street, his heavy black cashmere coat turned up at the collar against the damp chill. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark shadows of bone-deep exhaustion. He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours—not since the oxygen scrubbers had failed in the subterranean vault, not since he and Elias had clawed their way out of the suffocating dark of the upstate compound.His right wrist was tightly bandaged beneath his sleeve, the skin scorched red from forcing a hot hydraulic line to bypass the bunker’s locked steel doors. His jaw was tight, his teeth set so hard his mo